Small Town
by BeyondCanon
Summary: [Prompt Challenge] Brittany is the daughter of a ranch owner that Santana gets hired at.
1. Small Town

Several weeks ago I started a** prompt challenge** on my Tumblr. You drop me a prompt on my ask, I'll fill it if I'm seduced by it.

A few of those will be posted here. This is one of them.

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**SMALL TOWN**

You leave the worker's quarters by sunrise, every day.

There's always a lot to be done.

Spring ended a few weeks ago and the heat creeps up everywhere; under a shadow, in the quarters, even the fridge seems to be having a hard time keeping itself cold.

Some nights the young ones go by the river for a swim. They wait an hour or two after dawn to make sure the water is cold enough, and bet on who can swim more yards.

You love those moments; you feel safe.

This small town is a tight community, welcoming enough to accept your presence when you arrived, dirty and silent on an old motorcycle, but respectful enough to not ask too many questions.

You like it there. It's a good break from how things were before.

You like the vastness of the acres, too. You prefer this to waitressing at the local diner. You have no watch, no rush, no concerns other than a work well done.

The Pierce pickup truck passes by, and the boss honks at them with a throaty laugh; some of them wave.

You get dressed and gather your things.

The boss' only daughter passes by, smiling at you; she knows everyone by name. She's also more beautiful than anything you've ever seen.

You get on your bike; it roars and moans, but it doesn't let you down.

You haven't been on the road for five minutes when you see the daughter's truck. She's outside, tall and lean like a dancer; she stares at her phone.

You stop, one foot on the ground. "Trouble?"

She looks at you, startled. "Um, yeah. My tire."

You leave your bike by the side of the road and crouch down by the car. You use your small flashlight to take a look. "You've got a flat tire."

She looks at you like you've just spoken Greek.

You almost smile. "Do you have a spare?" You ask; she nods. "A jack and a lug wrench?"

"A lug what?" She frowns; you bite your lip to hold back a smile.

Lucky her, you've always been a hands-on kind of girl. You took it from your grandfather. "Let me take a look at what you have."

She has what you need. You take the tools and crouch down by the tire again. "Can you hold the flashlight?"

She holds it, resting her body against the car and watching you.

The night smells of fresh grass and mud. Neither of you say anything for the twenty minutes it takes you to change her tire.

You wish you weren't wearing shorts so you could clean your hands on your pants and worry about it later.

She somehow realizes it and grabs an old towel from the seat. "Here."

Your fingers brush against hers; her hand is velvet and silk, unlike yours. "Thank you," you say, scrubbing your palms, between your fingers, until you're a little more presentable.

"No, thank you, Santana." She smiles, taking the towel from your hands and throwing it in the back. "I wouldn't know what to do if you weren't here."

Your heart flutters a little when she says your name. "It's nothing, Miss Pierce, reall—"

She shakes her head. "Brittany. Call me Brittany."

"Brittany," you say, enjoying the way her name rolls on your tongue. "See you around."

—

You're on your lunch break, peeling an orange under a tree.

You found an old radio a few days ago, abandoned on a shelf, and you took it with you. The station you've chosen for now seem to dedicate itself exclusively to ballads from the eighties.

The daughter arrives, radiant under the sun, long legs in denim shorts, cheeks full of freckles. Your hands stop moving of their own accord; you realize you probably look stupid holding a fruit midair.

"Hey," she says, taking off her hat and sitting next to you.

You swallow dry and decide staring at your orange will be more productive. "Hey."

She sighs and rests against the tree. "Summer's been harsh."

"Yeah," you agree, cutting the orange in half and offering her some.

She accepts it, taking a deep bite and making little slurping sounds. You look at her with the corner of your eyes for a moment before eating your half.

She looks at you, her head tilting a little to the side. "Where are you from?"

"Does it matter?" You answer, shrugging.

She licks the drop of juice on the corner of her lip. "I guess it doesn't."

You both remain silent for a moment, listening to Cyndi Lauper. You try to think of things to say, but you're at a loss.

"Do you want to go to a parade tomorrow?" She chews a little before continuing, "There's a town real close that has a pretty good one."

She bites her lip at your silence. "C'mon, you can't miss the 4th of July."

"Yes." You bring yourself to say. "Sure." Your heart is doing that thing where it seems to drift within your ribcage.

She smiles bright and big. "Great. I'll pick you up at ten."

"Yeah," you agree dumbly.

She leaves like it's no big deal.

—

You're wearing a white muscle shirt and your favorite jeans, a worn and ripped pair you've had since you were 17.

You're wondering if you should be more American when she arrives in a summer dress that manages to reference the American flag without being completely and utterly ridiculous. You're amazed.

She rests her arm on the door and leans out the window, smiling like she's known you forever. "Ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," you say, circling the car and getting in the passenger seat.

Her car smells just like her, of grass and amber. You like it.

She looks at you for a second, head tilted. "I'll let you choose what we're going to listen to if, and only if, you promise not to be quiet and mysterious."

You try to protest. "I'm not mysterious!"

Her laugh is both gorgeous and contagious. "At least you know you're quiet."

You try not to blush. "I don't always have something to say."

She touches your thigh. She touches your thigh. Your thigh.

"It's very okay." She looks in your eyes one last time before starting the car. "Don't be embarrassed."

You clear your throat. "Okay."

You look out the window and stare at the open field before you. Something about the sound of the engine and the smell of the car reminds you of your grandfather. "I was born in a small town in Ohio. I hated it. Small towns are good only and only if no one knows who you are."

"Like you now."

You nod. "Like me."

She smiles at you. "There you go. Less mysterious. Did it hurt?"

You smirk at her teasing. "You think you're funny."

She shrugs and puts her sunglasses on. Her pretty long hair flies with the wind; you like it. "I'll show you I am."

You smile, changing stations randomly. You don't know if it's because she knocks you off your balance, but the car ride seems to take no time at all. You soon start spotting children disguised as the US flag, old overweight women trying to resemble pinups, and lots and lots of food trucks.

"We're going to have ice cream," she declares as soon as she parks. "Because tradition."

You nod, looking around as you walk by her side.

"My mom used to dress me just like that," she says, pointing to a small black girl donning a blue dress with stars. "She used to say it was the most beautiful part of the flag."

"That's nice," you say. "Were your parents still married then?"

She nodded, taking you to a small, colorful ice cream shop. "They never divorced."

You frown, trying to understand. If they had never divorced, why is her mother never around?

She reads into your silence. "My mom passed away when I was 10."

Smooth. "Oh." You freeze in place. "I'm sorry, I didn't kn—"

"You couldn't have known." She touches your arm, thumb soothing your skin. "It was a long time ago."

"Still." You don't know why you still try. "I'm sorry." You should just keep your mouth shut for the rest of the day.

When you get to the counter you manage to distract her enough to pay for her ice cream.

"You shouldn't have," she says, but you can tell she's delighted.

"It's the least I can do." You say, licking the sides of your cone.

She takes a napkin and cleans your chin with so much intimacy your entire face feels warm.

—

You're tired, stuffed with food, and sharing your second ice cream cone of the day.

You're at some square, a little distant from the main event, because she wanted to sit on a bench and breathe the space.

She rests her head on her hand, looking at you intently. You try not to notice.

"Thank you for today," she says.

"You're welcome," you say. "It was a good day." You take a long lick.

She's still staring at you.

"I want to do something." She licks her lips. "You can stop me if you want."

She joins your lips. Your first instinct is to flicker your tongue and taste the chocolate on her inner lip. She seems to relax a bit with your reaction and kisses you again, slower this time.

You kiss her upper lip, her lower lip, until she's taking a shaky breath and you're deepening the kiss, swirling your cold tongue around hers.

She cups your face, scooting closer.

Her fingers are sticky from the ice cream, but you don't mind.


	2. Picnic

**Important:** This story will **not** become a multichapter. Consider each chapter another glimpse within the same verse, a one-shot complete in itself.

I'd suggest you subscribe so you won't miss if I decide to add more to this verse! :) (I make no promises, though.)

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**PICNIC**

The week passes by much slower than you'd like.

You wake up at the usual time. You work just as much. You read, and you hang out with the younger workers sometimes.

There is no trace of her, though.

You hear someone saying she's off in another city, taking care of business. You try not to think about it too hard.

You still look every time your boss passes by to make sure she isn't with him. He congratulates you on your productivity once, and everyone makes fun of you for days.

You like him, at the end of the day. He's attentive, professional, and he pays fairly, which is more than you can ask for. His hair is the same tone of bright yellow as his daughter's.

You wonder if she's going to talk to you again.

—

You see her on Friday, but she's with her father and both supervisors and pays no attention to you.

They look serious and concerned, arguing with frowns on their faces. You're thankful for not having that kind of responsibility, at least for now.

You watch her go. The way she moves is different; there's a worried abruptness in her walk.

—

She shows up on Saturday.

You wouldn't think she'd just come looking: you're not well dressed, or even prepared for when she sits by your side, thighs brushing.

You're just there, old denim overalls, old grey shirt, old acoustic guitar.

She's beautiful in how she moves so careless, like she's free in ways you will never be. You stare at her for a moment.

"Don't stop." She says to you, placing a lock of hair behind your ear.

You look at her for a moment, weighing your options, before holding the guitar in position. She's still looking at you expectantly; you clear your throat and start to play the first thing that comes to mind.

"Can you sing?" She asks, leaning in your direction.

"No," you lie.

She gives you a particular smile, canines showing. "I think you can."

You fumble with a note and curse when her nails scratch your nape. She stops, still looking very amused. "I think you should."

You're rusty and you're far from being on tune, but you sing anyway, quiet and slow. She hums with the music; she's close enough for you to feel the faint smell of soap on her skin.

The final notes die, and she's still staring at you. "That was nice."

You groan. You know what nice looks like. "No, it wasn't." There was a time you sounded like clear river water, but that time has passed.

She ignores your comment. "I didn't know you had music in you."

"Only sometimes." You were never good enough.

You feel like kissing her again, but you don't; you set your guitar on the ground, instead.

Your thighs brush again, and you wonder how she can be so nonchalant and relaxed, so accepting of the silence you envelop yourself in.

"We could have a picnic." She's turned to you, providing the enticing view of her v neck. You still want to kiss her.

"I haven't bought anything," you say.

She doesn't budge. "I've got it. Just bring the guitar."

—

You like the spot she's chosen.

It's green and quiet, and there are enough big, exuberant trees to make for a thick, refreshing shadow. Everything seems to be miles and miles away.

You lay on the faded tablecloth she stole from the main house. You're surrounded by little sounds, like the tree branches rattling in the wind and small birds chirping.

You know by the way she breathes that she's tense to her stomach. You decide to ask. "Are things okay?"

"Sure," she tells you dismissively.

You scoot closer and turn to your right, facing her. "Are things okay?" You repeat, slow and calm, as you intertwine your fingers with hers.

She sighs and squeezes your hand, playing with your fingers. "Bank stuff." You try not to stare at her lips. "Business stuff. Being a grown up sucks."

You laugh. "It does."

She puts both hands under her head, staring at the sky. "Dad wants me to take over the business part."

Your hand rests on her stomach, running your thumb back and forth. It's very satisfying to feel her muscles tensing under your palm. "What do you want?"

She looks at you. "I studied agronomy, not spreadsheets. Spreadsheets are boring."

She runs her hand on your arm; the tips of her fingers tickle. You lean in a little closer. "They are."

She has those amazing blue eyes.

She's staring at your mouth. You shouldn't, but you lower yourself to her, pressing your body on top of hers.

You lick your lips, enjoying the sharp breath she takes in anticipation. When you kiss her, slow and wet, it's you who's in control.

You nibble her upper lip, tracing your tongue over it afterwards, your palm pressed against her collarbone, pinning her down.

She groans, low and raspy, and pulls you by the neck for another kiss. Her lips part to you and you explore her mouth, rubbing your tongues together deliciously.

You feel hot all over; she doesn't make it any easier when she squeezes your waist and pulls you closer. You support your weight on your elbows, hovering over her, and press your hips down because it's too easy.

She moans in sync with you, legs wrapping around your waist. So good. You kiss her, biting her lower lip and sucking on her tongue, and roll your hips again, a little harder this time.

You're already breathless, and you keep rubbing against her because it's just too good. She mumbles a harsh "don't stop" between kisses, pulling your hair.

Oh, you have no intention of stopping.

"I've been thinking about this," you say to her ear, resting your weight on your right elbow and palming her breast with your left hand.

She arches into you, grabbing your shirt. "Me too," she breathes out, pulling you in for a kiss.

You kiss her, coaxing her tongue into your mouth and sucking on it, and you press your thigh between her legs as you squeeze her breast. "About me, eating you out?"

She whines. "Oh God."

You place a wet kiss on her neck, biting the spot afterwards. "Fucking you with my tongue?" Your hand sneaks under her shorts, under her panties, and it's no surprise she's dripping.

You moan in unison when you touch her. She feels warm and slick and so hot; you just _have_ to run two fingers through her folds, spreading the wetness until you reach her clit.

"Fucking tease," she says, biting her own lip. The sound of her cursing makes you even hotter, so you press harder, drawing tight circles, watching her frown and moan and close her eyes.

She's bucking into your hand already, all sharp breaths and small moans. You take your time, working your thumb just enough to build the tension in her belly. Her nails sink in your arm, scratching down until it almost hurts.

"That's what you wanted? A good fucking? To come on my fingers until you can't take it no more?" You love the ache in your arm, the burn and the sweat dripping on your back.

She whines "yes" over and over again, nodding to your questions. You press a little harder, circles a little smaller, and it's all it takes before she's gasping and trembling, moaning your name louder than she should, collapsing under you.

She shivers all over.

"Oh God," she lets out a shaky laugh, pulling you in for a wet kiss. "You're amazing."

You run your tongue over her upper lip before biting it. "I'm hungry."

She laughs and points at the backpack. "Be my guest." She closes her eyes. "I need a moment."

You get to the wine first, because you have priorities.


	3. Party

I'm so I'm love with this verse I can't even. Take III.

Subscribe for more! (I just might keep on writing).

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**PARTY**

You watch her sometimes.

You don't have much to do on your days off; sometimes you climb up the small hill at the end of the farm, right before the preservation area, and watch life unraveling in front of you.

You see her talking to Mr. Pierce as they inspect a few tractors, to your far left. You can't see their faces, but it's easy to notice the weight on her shoulders.

She's just returned; she hasn't approached you since the picnic and you won't be the one to do it.

For now, you'll stick to what you know, the constraints of life drafted before you.

You hate to draw attention to yourself.

-.-.-

Your grandfather loved to fix things, to take them apart and find out how they worked.

He's passed it on to you, you realize, as you grab a clean cloth. The radio you found a few weeks ago rests on top of an old, wobbly, wooden table abandoned in the back of the quarters, disassembled with care.

You could buy another one, but you're not high on money and you have the entire morning to yourself; you might as well try to fix that thing.

You don't see her coming.

When she sits by your side you jump a little, startled, and earn a smile in return.

"Sorry I scared you," she says.

You huff something, your heart beating fast as you screen your surroundings to make sure you're alone. She smiles broader.

"How was the trip?" You ask, resuming your cleaning.

You try not to think of the things you did to her the last time you were together.

She watches your hands at work for a few moments. "Frustrating. My project wasn't sponsored."

"Why not?" You ask so she can keep talking; you like the sound of her voice.

"Apparently it's not financially sustainable yet." She passes you the soldering iron, triggering a curious look and the hint of a grin on your face. She's paying attention.

You almost, _almost _offer to help her with it. You know you're able to.

"It's my birthday this Saturday," she continues. "You're invited."

You're just a lowly operator; she shouldn't. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Everyone will be invited. Please?" She says, touching your elbow; she's very convincing. "Dad wants a big party to celebrate my return, or whatever. Friday night. Fireworks by midnight."

You can hide in the crowd, you suppose. "Okay."

Her phone rings and she has to leave.

You stare at the radio pieces, trying to figure out what kind of presents a girl like that should get.

-.-.-

You're by the river with the boys.

The last colors of the sunset slip away as you drink beers and share snacks.

You doze off, trying to imagine the party on Friday: the dancing, the cheerful singing, and maybe, if you're lucky, stealing her away for a minute or five.

"I heard she didn't get the grant," one of them says, drawing your attention back to the conversation. "Miss Master of Science isn't doing so well back in this hellhole."

Your stomach stirs and turns, unhappy with this. You focus on breathing and not saying a word, not drawing attention to yourself, not saying a word.

"Who cares?" Mark interrupts, grabbing a handful of Doritos. "Everything's doing well." He shoves them in his mouth, loud crunching as he chews. "And we'll get a free party out of her."

You don't like the malice in his eyes, the desire you can easily see.

He's the farm manager, which means he's technically also your boss. You take a big sip of your beer, clenching your jaw. You have no reason to be defending her, right?

You don't get in fights. You don't draw attention.

You take off your top and jump in the river.

-.-.-

It's Friday.

You're standing in front of an old barn.

You chose your best pair of jeans and you even shone your boots. You feel inadequate, because she's beautiful like spring and she always smells so good.

The latest country hit is blasting loudly, and you can see people dancing and talking. The whole town must be here.

Your flannel shirt is a little worn, but you haven't bought new clothes in over a year. You can't really complain.

You haven't gone to a party for some time now.

The sound of a car parking snaps you out of your daze and you enter the party.

-.-.-

She doesn't notice you right away.

You gravitate towards the bar, where four shirtless men make drinks for everyone, and get yourself a beer.

You can barely think when it's this crowded, so you decide to take a few moments to sit on a stool and collect yourself.

You're not going to get drunk tonight, you decide.

You're too impulsive after the first few drinks kick in.

You flinch when someone's hand palms your lower back.

You turn over, ready to flee, and it's Brittany.

"You came," she whispers, standing close to you; you understand it, even with the music thumping in your ears.

"You wanted me to," you answer. She smiles, leaning into your side a little.

You want to put your arms around her waist and nuzzle her neck, enjoying the feeling of your bodies together.

The thought of her father possibly seeing it stops you dead in your tracks.

"I got you a gift," you say, and you place it in the palm of her hand.

She looks at you so very tenderly; your cheeks burn. "You didn't have to," she says, her touch lingering on your forearm.

"I wanted to," you say, your eyes still locked with hers.

She opens the box and sees the wrist watch – it's a beautiful piece, you know that much: dark leather bracelet, elegant golden hands, and most importantly, a vintage map of the country on the dial.

"It reminded me of 4th of July," you say, even if it doesn't make a lot of sense.

"Thank you," she answers, giving you the kind of layered look that usually culminates in kissing.

She squeezes your thigh instead, and you rise your bottle before taking a sip.

-.-.-

It's not that bad.

You hang out with the other operators for some time, happy to be relaxing in the back while the party develops inside.

You come in from time to time, when it's your turn to get everyone a drink.

Your eyes scan the room for her out of habit, every time.

-.-.-

You decide to look for her when you can't find her.

She's leaning against a wall, posture uncomfortable as Mark hovers close.

You don't like it. Not one bit.

Working your way through the crowd, it becomes crystal clear how much she doesn't want it to be happening and how intoxicated Mark is.

Your first true instinct is to launch yourself and grab him by the collar until he comes to his senses.

He's twice your size and you're not that drunk, so you take a deep breath and put a hand on his shoulder instead.

"Hey there," you say, firm and strong.

He turns to you and his pupils are wide and glossy, but he's frowning at the interruption.

"Mr. Pierce is calling for you, Brittany." He isn't. "Something about your uncle and the cake." There's no uncle.

"Thanks," Brittany says, maneuvering out of Mark's grasp. "I'll be right back."

She shoots you a thankful look. It's more than enough.

You take the drink from Mark's hand.

"You need to stop right now," you say, and you can be commanding and scary when you want to. "What if Mr. Pierce had showed up here? You think he'd be happy to see you drooling all over his only daughter?"

He seems to consider the possibility for the first time, his eyes growing wide.

"You gotta be smart here," you say flatly, throwing his red cup aside.

"Fuck, Santana." He rubs his eyes. "Thank you."

You hesitate, unsure, before you realize what he's implying.

"I could lose my job. Fuck." He's slurring his words. "You're a good friend."

You're not his friend, but you're not telling him that.

The air is fresh and warm when you take him outside to his car and let him take a nap until he's feeling better.

You make sure you've got his keys.

-.-.-

Brittany is outside when you return.

She grabs your hand and takes you to a secluded spot behind a nearby tree.

You like this.

"Thank you," she mutters before pressing you against the tree and joining your lips hungrily. She grabs your hair and licks the roof of your mouth, the back of your teeth; rubs your tongues together in circles until you're getting dizzy; then breaks the kiss.

You like this even more, so you pull her right back in, placing wet kisses on her jawline.

"I've got your back," you say quietly.

She looks at you like she understands; she kisses you, this time slow and certain.


	4. Camping

The truth is that I'm not great at uploading stuff here. I'd really check my Tumblr if I were you!

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**CAMPING**

You pack your things and go camping.

Your old bag gets a little cramped, but it never fails to fit your gear. Your shoulders strain with the effort of carrying it to your bike, a faint ache on your muscles from the party the day before.

It's been a long night. You're still alert, muscles tense with adrenaline.

You're already getting too involved, and you've barely been here a few months.

You rev the engine with a sigh. Maybe you don't want to move again.

Sometimes a camper asks you something or does something nice and friendly in your direction.

You have manners, but the obvious lack of interest from your part means you spend most of the weekend alone.

You don't mind at all; the smell of wet mud and grass is more than enough company when you're hiking, exploring the territory.

You think of kissing her the night before: how she sighed in your mouth, the smell of alcohol when you kissed her jaw.

The night was fresh and your boots were comfortable when you drove Mark home and walked back to get your bike. It was almost dawn by then, a few waiters with boxes on their arms, and no Pierce to be seen.

You sleep as close to the river as you can; the water lulls you to sleep.

It's Sunday afternoon when you come to a stop in front of the worker's quarters.

The front steps are occupied by her, waiting for you.

"I realized I don't have your phone," she says quietly, standing straight.

"I don't have one," you say, hating how the moment feels pregnant with expectation. "I was camping."

She stares at you with purpose. "I would have liked to see you on my actual birthday."

"I'm sorry," you say, adjusting the bag on your shoulder. "Friday was a little intense."

"Yeah," it's all she offers, taking a few steps closer in the broad daylight. Every self-preservation alarm you ever had goes off.

"I'm sorry," you say, maneuvering out of her grasp and entering the building.

She doesn't come looking for you.

In your favor, you actually manage to wait a few days before doing anything.

You know where she parks her truck; you wait there, propped on the hood with your guitar on your lap.

She finds you, her skin painted in red sunset tones. You clear your throat and begin to sing. Your eyes remain on the ground and your guitar, never on her reaction.

Your fingers are trembling when you play the last note and dare to look at her face; she's standing right in front of you.

"I'm sorry," you offer again, hoping it still has value, "I'm not good at this."

"I wasn't going to kiss you in public."

"I panicked." The tips of your fingers run on the chords, drawing a strangled sound. "I missed you."

She nods, examining your face for a long moment. The sky darkens. "I like you."

You don't want to say anything. She looks at you and you give in. "I like you, too. Very much."

She fights back a grin, but you can see it. Your fingers find the hem of her pants to pull her closer, tentative.

She kisses you once, twice, three times before someone inside calls her for dinner. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are shining in the dark.

You're smiling like a fool. "See you around."

She kisses you one last time, quick and sweet, before running inside.

The next day she wears the watch you gave her.

She's gorgeous: flowery summer dress and flats, her hair down and skin fresh. Her eyebrows rise a bit when she sees you at the deposit.

It's not your usual spot. You're fixing one of the tractors, body leaning over the engine, grease and dirt and dried sweat all over your muscle shirt and arms.

You flex your arms harder than necessary, enjoying how her gaze lingers, turning hungry and open and wild.

Mark comes back with the equipment and you discuss possible solutions, very aware of her eyes on you.

She kisses you behind the deposit, open-mouthed and wet, exploring your mouth.

You keep your distance because you don't want to ruin her pretty pretty dress with your dirty clothes. You behave.

She doesn't. "You're so hot," she whispers between kisses, hand sneaking under your shirt and nails scratching your stomach.

Mark clatters something inside. "Britt," you try, a little breathless, "not here," but she kisses you again and guides your – thankfully washed – hands under her dress.

You grab two handfuls of her ass, moaning, head spinning with arousal and adrenaline. If Mark finds the two of you like this you're in so much trouble, so much—

She moans in your ear. "I want to come for you, Santana," your name delicious on her mouth, your entire body burning with want. "Make me come."

"Fuck." You snap, changing positions so you're the one pressing her against the wall, riding her dress up and cupping her mound. "Is this what you want?"

She whines and nods, pulling you in for a kiss, grabbing your shirt and moving her hips.

"You'll have to be quiet," you say with authority, rubbing the heel of your palm over her panties. "Really quiet."


End file.
